


Castle Season 1 The Lost Episode: Collared

by BlueAvenue



Category: Castle (TV 2009), Law & Order
Genre: Abduction, F/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Touching, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-19 03:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22404691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueAvenue/pseuds/BlueAvenue
Summary: Investigating the disappearance of three young women, Detective Kate Beckett is stymied in her effort to learn more about the lead suspect when his psychotherapist invokes doctor-patient privilege.  Kate teams up with Officer Ann Hastings and Assistant DA Abbey Carmichael to pursue a promising new lead, only to be lured into a clever trap by their quarry and taken captive themselves.
Relationships: Kate Beckett/Richard Castle
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	1. The Doctor Will See You Now

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in early summer 2009, not long after the dissolution of Kate Beckett's partnership with crime novelist Richard Castle. It is reasonable to assume Ann Hastings would be assigned to the 12th Precinct at the time, therefore I chose to include her sadly underused character. I've long wanted to do a Castle/Law & Order crossover if for no other reason than I believe Stana Katic and Angie Harmon would both look smokin' hot in bondage.

Driving east into the wilds of Brooklyn, Kate Beckett found herself stealing glances at the empty shotgun seat of her unmarked Crown Vic. It still felt odd not having Castle at her side. Loath as Kate was to admit it, she missed his frat-boy humor, his bottomless trove of literary and motion picture trivia, his startling, out-of-left-field insights on whatever case they happened to be working. She for damn sure missed him materializing at homicide scenes, no matter the hour, bearing a tall, steaming container of espresso prepared to her exacting taste. Where he found a barista, even in Manhattan, so accommodating at oh-dark-hundred would forever remain a mystery. 

_Girl, get a grip,_ Kate scolded herself. She straightened in her seat and resolutely thrust aside any and all regret. Richard Castle, goddamn him, had betrayed a confidence by reopening the investigation of her mother's murder without her knowledge, and that she could not--would not--forgive. Captain Montgomery had remarked on Castle's sudden MIA status, as had Kevin Ryan, both men respecting her privacy enough not to pry. Javier Esposito had yet to breathe a word on the subject, leading Kate to suspect he knew more than he was letting on. The thought of Javi--steadfast friend, loyal partner, ex-lover--violating regs and her trust by allowing Castle to access the Johanna Beckett file was more than she could deal with just now. 

Kate exited the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway at Flushing Avenue, turning south on Norstrand and east again at Lafayette, traveling deep into the heart of Bedford-Stuyvesant. There were cops with enough time on the Job to recollect the days when assignment to the Seven-Nine or Eight-One, the Brooklyn precincts responsible for policing Bed-Stuy, was equivalent to a combat tour in Iraq. Gentrification had transformed the neighborhood, now populated by an eclectic mix of artists, professionals, grad students and the inevitable hipsters. There was a down side; black families who'd long called Bed-Stuy home found themselves priced out of the housing market while the ripple effects of last year's financial implosion resulted in a record number of foreclosures.

Her destination was a side street of lovingly restored rowhouses, some dating as far back as the 1890s, when Teddy Roosevelt was police commissioner and Brooklyn was considered suburbia. Coasting along in search of parking, Kate admired the ornate friezes gracing the house fronts, the work of Old World artisans now eight or nine decades in their graves. She managed to shoehorn the Vic into a space between a Range Rover and Lexus, both showroom-new. To her amusement a radio car from the Seven-Nine rolled slowly past, the uniforms inside eyeing her warily as they asked themselves what a detective from a "foreign" precinct was doing on their turf.

She locked up the police cruiser and strode toward an address in midblock, boot heels ringing smartly on the pavement. It was a glorious morning in June, the summery air tinged with cinnamon and nutmeg from the corner bake shop. An errant breeze teased her luxuriant mane of tawny hair. Life was good. She lived in the world's greatest city doing a job like no other. All was right with Kate Beckett's world, save for that pervasive aching absence. She'd read articles on phantom limb syndrome among Iraqi war vets continuing to experience pain and other sensations in limbs they'd lost in combat. The condition was chronic and untreatable. No point in denying it, Richard Castle was her phantom limb. 

Kate mounted the front steps of the freshly painted rowhouse. A discreet brass plate to one side of the door announced DR. KADYA SZABO, CLINICAL PSYCHOTHERAPY. She rang the doorbell. Thirty seconds passed before the door was answered by a rangy man in gray tee shirt and comfortably frayed jeans, the former boldly lettered I LIKE COFFEE AND 3 PEOPLE. Tufts of feathery brown hair clung tenaciously to his freckled scalp. He peered uncertainly at her through aviator eyeglasses. _Haven't seen those in a while,_ Kate thought to herself. _They went out of style even before Gloria Steinem quit wearing them._

"May I help you?" the man asked. The broody look in his deep-set brown eyes bothered her.

"Detective Beckett, NYPD," she said, flashing her shield. "I'm with the 12th Precinct in Manhattan. I was hoping for a word with Dr. Szabo."

"She's not accepting new referrals at the moment."

Kate bit into her lower lip. _Jesus Christ, he thinks I'm in need of_ therapy? "You misunderstand. I'm here on official business."

"She's still with her ten o'clock."

"I'll wait."

"If you're here regarding a patient under her care, surely you realize any information regarding his or her treatment is privileged."

"Sir...I didn't catch your name, by the way." 

His fleshy lips quirked into a smile. "I never gave it. Trevor Stallworth, Dr. Szabo's husband."

"Mr. Stallworth, before leaving the precinct I spent half an hour on the phone with the attorney general's office in Albany. We discussed HIPPA and state law pertaining to doctor-patient privilege at some length. I assure you I'm well-versed on the subject. If the Doctor wants me to return with a court order, I'm good with that. But I'd prefer to hear it directly from her."

Stallworth consulted his watch, a TAG Heuer chronograph gleaming like a surgical tool on his wrist. "She should be done with her ten o'clock shortly. Her next appointment isn't until half past eleven. I'll speak with her. Maybe she can spare you a few minutes between patients."

"That's all I ask," Kate said.

"You're welcome to have a seat in her waiting room."

"Thank you." 

Kate followed him indoors, tucking her sunglasses in the breast pocket of her blazer. Stallworth preceded her down a narrow, dimly-lit hallway smelling faintly of lemon oil. Opening a door on his left, he ushered Kate into a room with pastel walls and heart of pine flooring. The furnishings were Danish Modern. Copies of _The New Yorker, Elle, Barron's_ and _Architectural Digest_ were arrayed on a chrome and glass coffee table.

"I should only be a minute," said Stallworth. He withdrew, closing the door behind him.

No sooner had Kate taken a seat than she heard a businesslike ringtone from inside her blazer. Captain Montgomery, no doubt.

"Are you in contact with Robb's therapist?" he asked without preamble.

"I just arrived. Waiting to speak with her now. Any word on my court order, Captain?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Would have called earlier, but I just spent twenty minutes on the goddamn phone having my ass reamed by Chief Catalano. Judge Nathanson reviewed your affidavit first thing this morning and signed your order."

"Good news for a change," said Kate. "I'll see if I can get the doctor's fax number for you."

"Kate, call me old-fashioned but I'm not comfortable entrusting something this important to a fax machine. Given the circumstance I'd rather you serve her with the original document."

"Fine. Have Ryan or Espo pick it up at the courthouse and bring it to me."

"They're up in Westchester County interviewing our latest victim's parents. Your protégé Officer Hastings is running it out to Brooklyn for you. She left almost half an hour ago, so barring a traffic jam she'll catch up with you shortly." Montgomery paused. "Kate, I can't stress enough the urgency here. The mayor's office is all over the PC, he's all over the C of D, who's--"

She finished the sentence for him. "All over you." It was perhaps the oldest axiom of policing, whether you were a cop in Bangor or San Diego, Anchorage or Key West. Fecal matter at the top of an incline tends to redistribute itself toward the bottom. Put more succinctly, shit rolls downhill.

"There's a lot more riding on this than my career. I'm a black man on a police force still run by Irish and Italians. I've accepted that I'll retire at my present rank. But I have two girls of my own at home. They are more precious to me than life itself. I can't imagine the agony those three dads are going through." Another pause. "I'll be waiting to hear from you, Detective."

"Yes, sir." She pocketed the phone, pivoting in her chair as the door opened behind her. The woman framed in the doorway topped Kate's five-foot-nine even without her stiletto heels. Dr. Kadya Szabo presented a stunning portrait in black: raven's wing hair cut shoulder length; black silk blouse open deeper than necessary for comfort; black pencil skirt; sheer black hose. Her pale oval face was of a Slavic cast familiar to the detective from a college semester spent studying in Russia, the eyes wide-set and oblique, cheekbones you could lacerate yourself on, mouth sensual yet stubborn. Kate was unsure she approved of the black lipstick, which struck her as well, edgy for someone in Dr. Szabo's line of work. 

The doctor unexpectedly thrust a cellphone at her. "My lawyer," she said tersely.

Kate pressed the phone to her ear. "This is Detective Beckett. Who am I speaking with?"

"Marlin Kirkham, Counselor at Law," answered a briskly authoritative voice. "Personal attorney for Dr. Szabo. I'm putting you on notice that under no circumstance will she turn over case notes or other privileged information regarding her patients. Not happening, Detective. Sorry you made the trip from Manhattan for nothing." 

"I have a court order on the way," Kate said.

"Good luck with that. I'll be appearing before the New York State appellate court thirty minutes from now with a motion to quash that order."

"Mr. Kirkham, we're not on a fishing expedition. We're interested in a specific patient, who happens to be a person of interest in the abduction of three young woman."

"The man calling himself Frederick Clegg. Yes, I've followed the news reports. Purely for the sake of argument, what would you do with his file if you somehow obtained it? That assumes of course Dr. Szabo is even treating him to start with. On my advice she will neither confirm nor deny that."

"He's been observed entering and leaving her residence," Kate retorted. "But in answer to your question, the files would be provided to a forensic psychiatrist who consults with the Department on a regular basis. He would--"

"If you're referring to Emil Skoda," interrupted Kirkham, "he's nothing but a lapdog for the NYPD. He cherry-picks for probable cause to arrest and evidence to convict. Frankly, I don't see why Dr. Szabo should be doing your jobs for you." 

"Should he determine Dr. Szabo diagnosed him as dangerous, or if he divulged details of a crime to her, she's required under New York law to report that. Need I remind you there are lives at stake?" 

"My favorite niece turns eighteen next month and starts attending Barnard in the fall, so I too hope you catch the son of a bitch. Harassing Dr. Szabo is not the way to go. There are thirty-six thousand or more police officers in this city; Finland and Denmark have smaller standing armies. NYPD's annual budget exceeds one billion dollars. Given those resources, your near-comic inability to identify and apprehend this predator makes me ask why I pay such exorbitant taxes to live here."

"Please listen," Kate said. "Parker Robb, our person of interest, was fired from his last two jobs for viewing online bondage porn in the workplace. Ex-coworkers we've interviewed tell us he's consumed with fantasies about kidnapping and tying up women. Robb matches the profile prepared for us by the FBI Behavioral Science people at Quantico. It's imperative--"

Kirkham again cut her short. "Dr. Szabo has a professional duty to keep her conversations with _all_ patients in strictest confidence. If she can't honor that trust, she may as well shred her license and get a job waiting tables. Now then, I'm sure she would appreciate it if you left before her next patient arrives and stresses out over the police being there. Good day, Detective Beckett."

With a sour taste in her mouth, Kate returned the phone to Dr. Szabo. The open neck of her silk blouse revealed an insanely elaborate tattoo just below her collarbone, a winged creature of some sort. _No wait,_ Kate realized, _those aren't feathers, they're scales. A dragon?_ _Okay, so she's into dragons. Northing wrong with that, except...between the way she's tatted up and the way she dresses, she wouldn't be my first choice if I ever needed a therapist._

"Detective...Beckett, is it?" inquired Dr. Szabo. Kate detected a faint East European accent. "I'm not unsympathetic, however--"

"This isn't over," Kate vowed. She marched out of the room and straight for the front door. Outside she spotted a squad car from the 12th parked across the street, Officer Ann Hastings at the wheel. Nor was Ann alone: ADA Abigail Carmichael waited on the sidewalk, stylish as always in a pink sleeveless sheath dress and slingback heels. Her expectant smile faded as she took note of the storm cloud expression on Kate Beckett's face.

"What's wrong?" Abbey asked at once.

"I'm just off the phone with Dr. Szabo's lawyer. He's about to ask a higher court to vacate Judge Nathanson's order."

"Shit," said Abbey in her Texas twang. "Who's her lawyer?"

"Marlin Kirk. No, Kirkham. He's a 'Counselor at Law,' by the way, not a mere attorney. Asshole."

"Never met, but I know him by reputation. Before getting into tax law and estate planning, he was a defense lawyer. A good one. He'll have no trouble persuading an appellate judge to stay the order."

"So, unless your boss Jack McCoy can pull a rabbit out of his hat in the next hour..."

"Hold that thought." Abbey fished her cellphone from her shoulder bag. By now she and Kate had been joined on the sidewalk by Ann Hastings, crisply uniformed in midnight blue. Hearing the rowhouse's front door open and close, the trio turned to see Trevor Stallworth descend the steps. He tugged a blue Chicago Cubs cap low over his face. _A Cubbies fan in Brooklyn,_ mused Kate. _You're taking your life in your hands there, Trevor._

Stallworth jostled her in passing. "Take this," he hissed, pressing a wad of paper into Kate's hand. He then quickened his pace and loped west toward Marcus Garvey Boulevard. The detective unfolded the paper and scanned a message obviously written in haste.

Abbey frowned, finger poised over the keypad of her phone. "Kate, am I imagining things, or did he just pass you a note?"

"He did. It says, 'Meet me in ten at Underground Coffee on MGB. Urgent.' What do you think, Counselor?"

A devious smile stole across Abbey's face. "I think the three of us could use a cup of coffee right about now. I'm buying." 


	2. Learning the Ropes

Kate Beckett briefed her captain by phone prior to setting out for the coffeehouse and her impromptu meet with Dr. Szabo's husband. Roy Montgomery cursed bitterly upon learning Marlin Kirkham, Esquire was about to go before an appeals court judge seeking to vacate the order for Parker Robb's treatment records. "Let me get on the horn to Jack McCoy," Montgomery said. "With any luck he can head this Kirkham off at the pass."

"Already taken care of," Kate assured him. "Abbey Carmichael is on the line with McCoy now."

"ADA Carmichael's there with you?"

"She hitched a ride with Officer Hastings. A good thing, too. Captain--"

"God _damn."_

Kate blinked. "Sir?"

"DCPA just stepped off the elevator." DCPA was short for Deputy Commissioner, Public Affairs. "They're all having a shit hemorrhage down at One PP. I better go see if I can placate him."

"Captain, wait--" But Montgomery had already hung up. Her news concerning Trevor Stallworth would have to keep. 

The threesome opted to walk the short distance to Underground Coffee, leaving Ann's squad car parked directly opposite Dr. Szabo's rowhouse as an unsubtle reminder the NYPD was unwilling to roll over and play dead for her just because she had a high-priced attorney on retainer. Strolling west toward Marcus Garvey Boulevard, they discussed the progress, or more correctly lack thereof, in tracking down the man calling himself Frederick Clegg a/k/a The Collector--to say nothing of rescuing his captives.

Clegg's first victim was Luciana "Lucy" Reyes, weekend sports anchor for Channel 7, who disappeared somewhere between the WABC studios and her apartment in the 12th Precinct in the early-morning hours of May 15th. Victim No. 2 was Allison Devane, a recent Cornell grad employed at a Wall Street investment house. She too resided within the boundaries of the 12th. Two days after Allison went missing, as Detective Kate Beckett hurried back to the station house from an abbreviated lunch break, a bicycle messenger slewed to a halt before her and wordlessly thrust a sealed manila envelope into her hands. He then pedaled off, losing himself in noon hour traffic on Madison Avenue. Inside the packet Kate found to her shock photographs of Lucy and Allison bound and gagged in _very_ revealing lingerie, plainly terrified and pleading for help with anguished eyes.

Accompanying the photos was a handwritten note, even now being analyzed by forensic graphologists, claiming Lucy and Allison were the author's first "acquisitions" and daring the police to prevent him from "collecting" more. He signed himself "Frederick Clegg." Kate Beckett, thanks in large part to her exploring Castle's private library pre-breakup, recognized the name at once. Frederick Clegg, she explained to her skeptical superiors, was a character in _The Collector,_ a psychological thriller written in the early 1960s by English novelist John Fowles. Clegg labors as a minor civil servant in a dreary factory town. His only interest outside of work is collecting butterflies, that is until he becomes enamored of, then obsessed with, a beautiful young art student named Miranda Grey. Painfully shy and impoverished, Clegg has zero chance of connecting with her. Then, in an unexpected stroke of good fortune, he wins the lottery and uses part of his windfall to buy a house in an isolated rural area. Clegg proceeds to abduct Miranda, holding her prisoner in his cellar in the forlorn hope she will reciprocate his love for her.

The book, Kate grimly informed the assembled NYPD brass, did _not_ end on a happy note. 

Four nights later The Collector "acquired" graphic designer Jennifer Weigandt by kidnapping her from a supposedly impregnable condominium in the adjacent One-Five Precinct. The following day Police Officer Ann Hastings and her partner returned from an unfounded prowler call to find a second packet tucked beneath the windshield wipers of their radio car. Another photo, this time Jennifer lying across a frilly four-poster bed hogtied and bandanna-gagged in a string bikini. The enclosed missive ended with this warning: _Al_ _ready I weary of soft targets. Where is the challenge? Therefore my next acquisition will be a woman police officer._

One Police Plaza tried keeping the lid on, but Clegg sent duplicate photos to the _Post, Daily News_ and _Times._ Both tabloids splashed the story across Page One, and even the Good Gray Lady felt obliged to print it. As the media feeding frenzy raged, Detectives Esposito and Ryan discovered a common denominator linking the victims: all three belonged to the same online dating service. Fearing scandal, the owners were only too happy to cooperate with police. It was determined a man named Parker Robb had "swiped right" on Lucy, Allison and Jennifer's profiles. Once Robb's predilection for bondage came to light, detectives were assigned to tail him 24/7. This led the NYPD to the doorstep of Dr. Kadya Szabo, a psychotherapist specializing in treatment of adults traumatized by physical or sexual abuse as children.

"So, you actually spoke with the husband before we got here," Abbey said to Kate as they turned the corner at Marcus Garvey Boulevard. Ann Hastings lagged a pace or two behind.

"I did," Kate affirmed.

"And your impressions of him?"

Kate weighed her answer carefully. "He was _...correct._ Not hostile, but not very receptive either. I was frankly surprised he invited me inside. More than anything he struck me as protective of his wife."

"Either that or terrified of her. Why else would he be meeting us on the sly like this?"

"We'll know soon enough," said Kate, slowing as they neared the coffeehouse. Its full name was Underground Coffee Collective, spelled out in gold letters bordered in red above the entrance. Stepping inside, the policewomen and assistant DA surveyed a roomful of mismatched tables occupied by patrons of both sexes sporting sleeve tattoos, nose rings and other forms of body art. Abbey Carmichael was repulsed by the facial piercings, which even Ann and Kate found hard to look at directly. A heroic mural on the back wall depicted sweltering peasants harvesting coffee beans under a pitiless sun, evoking Soviet propaganda art from the 1930s. Trevor Stallworth was in whispered conversation at the service counter with a bearded, broad-shouldered barista. He motioned for Kate and her companions to join him. They hesitated, acutely aware of fifteen pairs of flinty eyes trained on them like heat-seeking missiles.

"Something tells me these people aren't overly fond of cops," said Ann Hastings _sotto voce._ "Or district attorneys, for that matter."

Kate nodded unhappily. "Yeah, welcome to Brooklyn."

"Would you ladies feel more comfortable outside?" suggested Stallworth. "There's a seating area for customers in back."

"I think we'd prefer that, yeah," said a visibly relieved Abbey.

"What can I order you? My treat."

"Let me recommend our iced cappucinos," said the barista in a pleasantly gruff voice. "Better'n anything they serve at Starbucks. Nothing's too good for our friends at the En-Wye-Pee-Dee." He placed a sarcastic stress on the word ''friends." 

"Thank you," Kate said dryly.

"Which precinct you from, Seventy-ninth or Eighty-first?"

"Neither," replied Ann, touching her collar brass. "Detective Beckett and I are with the One-Two in Manhattan. Ms. Carmichael here is an assistant DA for New York County."

"Well, la-dee-fucking-dah," sneered a male customer, his face inked with tats from hairline to jawline; even his _eyelids_ were tattooed. "You take the bridge over like everyone else, or did you walk on water?"

"I'll show you the way," Stallworth said hastily. He led the trio out the door, along the sidewalk and down an alley separating the coffeehouse from a vintage clothing shop next door. A cedar privacy fence enclosed a tree-shaded flagstone patio furnished with wicker tables and chairs. Stallworth settled his lank frame into a chair and doffed his Cubbies cap. Kate sat down across from him, Ann and Abbey to her left and right. The ADA nodded approvingly. 

"This is great," she chirped. "All the privacy we could ask for."

"That's the whole idea," responded Stallworth. He essayed a smile. "Pretty obvious you weren't welcome in there. I should have considered that before inviting you."

"We definitely got a negative vibe," agreed Kate.

"Owen should be out with your drinks any minute."

Ann removed her uniform hat and placed in the table. She picked up the Cubs cap, holding it between thumb and forefinger as though it was somehow unsanitary. "Don't see many of these in New York," she remarked. "Certainly not in Brooklyn."

"I'm from LaGrange, Illinois," Stallworth explained. "Due west of Chicago. I attended my first Cubs game at Wrigley Field before I could walk."

"And I bet they've been breaking your heart ever since. I mean, they haven't won a World Series since Teddy Roosevelt was president. The last time they actually _went_ to the Series was what, Nineteen forty-five? My parents weren't even born yet." 

"I read somewhere rooting for the Cubs is a form of masochism," Abbey said with a grin.

Stallworth returned her gaze levelly. "My masochism is unrelated to my love for the Cubs. I didn't fully grasp that I was a masochist as the textbooks define it until I was thirteen or fourteen. I didn't accept it until I was nineteen. Only when I met Kadya did I come to embrace it."

"Mr. Stallworth," Abbey said after an awkward silence, "your personal life is of no concern to us as police and prosecutors. What _does_ concern us is--"

"No, it's important," he interrupted. "You need to understand where I'm coming from, because it puts what I'm about to say in context. Kadya and I are proud members of the BDSM community. We have a happy, fulfilling marriage in which I serve as submissive to her domme."

"BDSM," repeated Ann. "Bondage, Domination and Sadomasochism, am I right?"

"Unlike most people, we aren't in denial about our kink."

"So...your wife the therapist, the woman people go to for help dealing with their issues, is into whips and chains?"

"You make it sound like something vile," Stallworth said darkly. "Kadya has been tying up women _and_ men since age fifteen. That doesn't alter the fact that she, like nearly everyone else in our fetish community, is a law-abiding, productive member of society. Note I said _nearly._ I asked you to meet me here because I'm deeply concerned about this Parker Robb. My wife seems to have lost her clinical detachment where he's concerned."

A rear door opened and Owen the barista--Kate thought "Owen" an odd name for a man big enough to justify his own ZIP code--emerged bearing three tall ceramic mugs topped with heads of satiny foam. He set them on the table before each woman along with spoons and napkins. Kate promptly sampled her decadent concoction, as did Ann and Abbey. Delicious, with an intriguing lemony aftertaste that lingered on her tongue. She drank deeply from her mug.

Stallworth waited for Owen to retreat indoors before he resumed speaking. "There is nothing shameful about bondage fantasies; in fact they're far more commonplace than most people admit. Nor is there anything shameful about acting on them." He looked directly at Ann Hastings. "I imagine you have a boyfriend."

"Yes..." she said in a guarded tone.

"Don't tell me you haven't role played in the bedroom with your police-issue handcuffs once or twice."

"None of your goddamn business." Ann raised her cup to her lips for another hearty swallow of cappuccino, glaring at him over the rim.

"The point I'm trying to make is this: living out fantasies about being roped up and helpless is fun and even healthy provided it's all consensual and safety measures are in place. Kadya has never taken part in a bondage session without the express consent of her sub. What troubles me is that lately she's shown an interest in non-consensual bondage. She tells me she's bored with willing subs. She wants to up her game."

"Wild guess," said Kate. She paused to lick foam from around her mouth, unladylike but the citrus tang was irresistible. "It began when she started treating Parker Robb." 

"He is one sick puppy," Stallworth said. "And I fear he's infecting Kadya with his psychopathic tendencies."

"Uh-huh." Kate doubted Robb had put any ideas in Dr. Szabo's head that weren't already there. A follow-up question was in order if only she could recall what they'd been discussing. _Holy shit, twenty-nine is kind of young for short-term memory loss._ The thought triggered wholly inappropriate laughter. Castle would have thrown her an incredulous look had he been present. 

"Maybe you just rescind the attendance your wife gives him," said Abbey. She frowned to herself. "Shit, that didn't come out right...are you sure there's no jeopardy here, 'cause you sound like a jeopardous husband to me, but what the fuck do I know?"

Kate should have been alarmed by Abbey's sudden and bizarre incoherence. Instead she luxuriated in a wonderful drowsiness. She felt no guilt whatsoever for such derelict behavior. At least she was sitting up in her chair--unlike Ann Hastings, slumped face down across the table while her overturned mug sloshed its contents onto the flagstones. Kate rebuked her silently. _Falling asleep on duty, in full uniform for fuck's sake, that'll earn you days off without pay, Annie Get Your Gun._

"Owen guaranteed you'd go nighty-night within five minutes," she heard Stallworth say. "He underestimated. You bitches will be lucky to make it past three."

Abbey's eyes fluttered shut, head drooping forward. Kate sensed somehow she ought to be doing _something_ \--standing up, pulling her piece on Stallworth, using Ann's radio to call in a 10-13--but she couldn't get her legs to work. She was but dimly cognizant of Stallworth opening her blazer to expose her handgun, freeing the .40 Glock from its holster and passing it to Owen the Barista, who'd already relieved Ann Hastings of her sidearm.

 _Asshole drugged our cappuccinos,_ Kate concluded. _So original even Castle never thought of it. Fucking Castle, he'd be here to save my ass if only I hadn't shown him the door. How ironic._ At which point keeping her eyes open required more energy than she could justify and Kate Beckett toppled headlong into the dark bottomless depths. 

"Sweet dreams, Detective Beckett," said Stallworth. "They'll be the last you ever have." He placed the baseball cap back on his balding head, then turned to Owen. His accomplice was admiring the Sig Sauer P226 pistol he'd taken off Ann. "I don't pretend to know much about firearms, but that's a nice-looking gun. You gonna keep it as a souvenir or sell it?"

Owen reacted with genuine horror. "Oh, fuck no! Both these bad boys are radioactive. I could throw 'em in the East River and even that don't guarantee they'd stay lost. Got an artist buddy in Queens, recycles scrap metal into sculptures. He'll melt these down for me in his furnace, no questions asked. Goddamn shame though. Always wanted me a Sig."

"We have transport on the way?" Stallworth asked.

"Put 'em on alert right after you left." Owen fished a cellphone from his hip pocket. "The usual: unmarked utility van with windowless payload bay. I'll get 'em started this way."

"Good." Stallworth carefully lowered Kate's limp body to the flagstones. He locked her wrists together behind her back with the handcuffs she's so thoughtfully brought to the party. Based on past experience she'd be out for the next five to six hours, but why take chances? Owen did the same with Ann, using the spare set of cuffs on her duty belt to hook up Abbey Carmichael as well. The handcuffs were a stopgap, Robb preferring his women in rope bondage. So for that matter did their wealthy backer. Owen and Stallworth finished up by collecting the sedated women's cellphones in addition to Ann's police radio and Abbey's handbag. All would prove useful in creating false trails for police to follow once the search effort for two MIA policewomen and an assistant district attorney was launched. 

"Remember our deal," Owen said. "I get quality time with the blonde. Hot as she looks in that uniform, I bet you she looks hotter without it. Can't wait to tap some of that poe-lease ass. Snippy bitch."

"You'll have to talk about with Robb about that," Stallworth said as he cleave-gagged Kate by knotting a bandanna between her teeth, another sensible precaution given that he and Owen were looking at life sentences in Attica if anything went awry.

"Lazy fuck. He's not here to help with the grunt work."

"Give him time. Unless you want him to lead the cops straight to us." Stallworth flashed a sinister smile. "As for the blonde, he can afford to be generous. We just doubled the size of his collection, after all."

  



End file.
